Follow me into the night
by tinlizzie82
Summary: He would never choose to spare himself, but her pain breaks him in a moment. Set sometime before the S4 finale. Written for a fic meme on Livejournal. Trigger warnings: Strong elements of kidnapping, torture, rape, dub-con, and potential suicide - no one dies. Yeah, this goes some dark places.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Trigger warning: This story contains significant elements of torture, kidnapping, rape, dub-con, and suicide. Do not read it if these are triggers for you. Do not be fooled by the lighthearted beginning, the end goes to some rather dark places.**

**Written for the LJ kink meme. This was the prompt: Rick and Kate (not in a relationship never had sex with each other before ) get kidnapped and forced into a underground BDSM ring where they are forced to to continually have sex (with each other ) different positions different fetishes depending on what the client wants. I never really had any intention of filling it exactly (even I won't go that far) but neither did I plan on writing the horrific angst that I actually produced.**

"Castle. For god's sake, could you try and put your eyeballs back in your head."

He knows he must be wearing a really stupid look, but damn, her reprimand isn't doing much good. Especially since she delivered it in a commanding tone of voice, her hands on her hips, while wearing the sexiest dominatrix costume he's ever seen. The crop in her hand isn't exactly helping matters either.

Yeah, he thinks, this might be the best case ever.

It wasn't even their case to start with. When the first graphic torture videos began to pop up online, cyber crimes and SVU started to keep an eye out. When those were followed by several snuff films with a suspicious degree of verisimilitude, those departments went into overdrive. It wasn't until the first of several bodies showed up in the twelfth precinct that homicide, and Beckett, took over.

Background research managed to link the victims to Club Marquis, an exclusive BDSM society, the sort of members-only club that denied entrance and dodged questions. Unfortunately, what little evidence they had was far too tenuous for even the most basic search warrant, and without a warrant, there was no way they were getting inside. The investigation ground to a halt, leaving Beckett frustrated and cranky as hell.

Help came from the most unexpected quarter. Just when Beckett seemed about to reach her boiling point, Ryan showed up waving an elegantly embossed invitation. Castle plucked it out of his hand before Beckett could even lay a finger on it and proceeded to read the suggestively ambiguous text out loud.

"Dear Prospective Member, the Club Marquis would like to invite you to an evening at our facility. This invitation will admit you and a guest on the night of March 13th for what we hope will be a most pleasurable experience. If you have any questions regarding dress code, services, standards or restrictions, please call feel free to call ahead." When he finished reading, Castle looked over at Ryan. "I'm impressed."

"Forget impressed," Esposito said, narrowing his eyes, "I think what we ought to be is worried. Seriously, bro, you want to tell us exactly how you got that little invitation?"

"Oh jeez, no. I mean, yes I can tell you how I got it, but no to whatever else you were thinking," Ryan stammered, his cheeks flushing pinkly.

"So … explain," Castle prompted.

"Oh, right … Jenny got it for me."

Esposito raised his eyebrows. "Man, she doesn't seem the type."

"What, no. She got it from a friend." Ryan paused to look towards Castle for help, only to wince at the smirk on his face. "Not that kind of friend." Castle and Esposito raised their eyebrows and he stumbled on. "Okay, I guess technically it is that kind of friend because that's why she had the invitation. Why the friend had the invitation, not Jenny. Jenny didn't have it until her friend gave it …" he trailed off helplessly, his face an amusing shade of red. "Just give the damn thing to Beckett," he finally snapped before he stalked back out of the squadroom in search of some privacy in which to regain his dignity.

"It's never the ones you suspect," Esposito said with mock seriousness, before holding out his fingers for a 'feed the birds' moment.

And now, mere days later, with Beckett standing in front of him idly slapping a crop against her booted calf, Castle thinks this one evening might just make his entire year. Then Beckett lifts her hands and leans towards him to fasten a black leather collar around his neck, twining her fingers into the leash that is attached to the ring on the front of it.

"Oh, detective, just exactly how far are we taking this undercover job," Castle whispers provocatively. Then he lets out an indignant squeak when she smacks the crop firmly across the back of his thighs.

"Castle," she says in an ominous tone, "given that you're the sub, do you really think you should be asking that question?"

His eyes widen and his gut clenches with a weird mix of apprehension and arousal. Beckett rolls her eyes in exasperation and grabs her coat. Then she gives the leash a sharp tug and heads for the elevator, Castle right behind her.

Half an hour later an elegantly dressed woman, who introduces herself as Elaine, lets them into an expansive brownstone in a neighborhood where Castle would have sworn the most risque thing that ever happened was a husband ogling the uniformed maid. Once they are past the rather staid foyer, he realizes just how far off his estimation is. He tries not to gape at all the leather corsets, platform boots, and harnesses the patrons are sporting as he signs the required release and checks off boxes on a list of items that makes his toes curl. Once they are done with the formalities, Elaine beckons them back further into the building.

"We like to start by giving new members a tour of our facilities," she says with a pleasant smile. "It will only take about twenty minutes and then we'll let you explore on your own." She stops for a moment and turns to Beckett. "I forgot to ask. Is he allowed to speak without your permission?"

Castle starts to open his mouth but a sharp pinch from Beckett silences him before he can make the mistake of answering. "Normally, no," she says blandly. "But I think I can make an exception for the duration of the tour."

"That's good. I always like to know that I've answered everyone's questions," Elaine says before she leads them into what appears to be a nicely appointed lounge.

Castle gazes around the room, slightly surprised. There's a copper topped bar running the length of one end, stools lined up in front of it. Leather chairs flank numerous low tables scattered throughout the room. The paneled walls are hung with tasteful artwork and music plays softly in the background. It looks like any other upscale club, or at least it would if you ignored the high volume of leather garments and the fact that half the guests were kneeling on the floor.

Their guide must have sensed their surprise. "A large part of what we provide our patrons is the opportunity to interact with others once they have assumed their respective roles. That's a pleasure that's hard to come by in the rest of their lives," she explains.

"And one well worth your yearly dues," Beckett adds.

"Our members seem to think so," Elaine agrees with a smile. "We have a fully stocked bar and the lounge also serves a good selection of hors d'oeuvres." They walk through the lounge and into another room filled with tables. "This is our dining room. We serve only during certain hours and it is a somewhat limited menu, but I can assure you, the quality is excellent." She points towards a stage that juts out into the far end of the room. "Several nights a week we offer shows during dinner."

"Shows?" Castle croaks out.

"It's how we satisfy the desires of our members who prefer to merely observe certain practices. We'll give you a program schedule if you decide to join us."

"And for those who prefer participating?" Beckett asks.

"For that we need to go upstairs," Elaine tells her with another of her gracious smiles. "Follow me."

The wide front staircase leads to a hallway lit by ornate wall sconces. The thick carpet that muffles their steps is a dark dove grey. Ebonized wood paneling lines the lower half of the walls and the top is painted a crimson so deep that it appears nearly black in the shadowed corners. Heavy doors made of the same dark wood as the panels line both sides of the hall.

"These are our private rooms," Elaine tells them. "They can be reserved as much as a month in advance, but there are usually a few of them free should the mood strike you on shorter notice. We also employ several professional dommes, or doms, should you ever feel the need for outside discipline."

This is where they want to be. The hope is that they can locate the setting from one of the online videos. If they do, that will be more than enough to obtain the warrant they need.

Elaine opens the nearest door and leads them in. The room is decorated in what could best be described as Gothic boudoir. There is a huge four poster bed that forms the centerpiece, its turned columns punctuated by various hooks and chains. One wall sports an enormous mirror flanked by black velvet drapes embroidered with red and gold. Directly opposite that a St. Andrews cross padded with red leather is affixed to the wall. All of the furniture is dark and ornate and the upholstery leans heavily towards richly colored velvet. Even the spanking horse in the corner has legs that are carved and turned to resemble furniture from a bygone era. Unfortunately, none of it remotely resembles anything in the illicit videos.

"I'm impressed," Beckett says as she looks around the room. "You've spared no expense on the custom items."

"Only the finest will do," Elaine says as she walks over and opens a large armoire that must have held clothing at some time far in the past. Now it is filled with an assortment of cuffs, slings, harnesses and floggers. The scent of well oiled leather emanates from its depths. Elaine runs a hand down an unidentifiable strap. "Our members demand the best."

Elaine closes the door behind them as they walk back out into the hall. She takes a quick glance at some sort of scheduling sheet before leading them towards another door at the far end of the hallway. As they make their way down the dimly lit corridor, the sound of a muffled cry drifts out from one of the rooms. Castle would swear that he also hears the distinctive slap of leather on flesh and he glances over at Beckett to see her reaction. He knows that her cop instincts must be on high alert, but she stays firmly in character, striding across the carpet and exuding an unmistakable authority.

They finally reach their destination and Elaine pauses before opening the door. "All of our rooms have their own themes. If you become members, you'll be able to view virtual tours of them on our website. This particular room is one of the more elaborate designs. We call it The Inquisition."

Castle's eyes go wide at the name, and then wider still when the door swings open. The room is all faux stone walls, sooty wrought iron, and ancient looking wood. He can't even begin to imagine the uses of some of the archaic looking contraptions that serve as furniture, but the purpose of the chains and cuffs hanging from the wall is very clear. The room is, yet again, entirely unfamiliar.

He's is doing his best to look as though he's seen it all before. He's far from naive and more than familiar with the basics of BDSM, but this isn't some campy dungeon filled with fur lined cuffs and the sort of toys you can order off the internet. Even the most upscale sex shop he has ever visited can't quite compare. The entire club is a whole new level of kink and he's not quite sure whether he finds it titillating or terrifying. He's still gazing around, his mouth slightly open, when Elaine's phone buzzes softly. She glances down at it and gives them an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry to cut your tour a bit short but I'm needed downstairs," she says. "If you'll just follow me, I'll show you a shortcut back to the public rooms." When they are back out in the hallway, Elaine unlocks an unobtrusive door set right at the very end of the hall. "Just go through there and the stairs will take you to the back of the lounge."

"Thank you," Beckett says, "You've been very informative." Then she uses the end of her crop to poke Castle sharply in the ribs. "Where are your manners, boy," she snaps.

"Sorry, uh, mistress," Castle chokes out, and he could almost swear he sees a tiny twinkle in Beckett's eyes when he calls her that. He turns to Elaine. "Thank you, it was a lovely tour."

"I'll see you back downstairs, enjoy your evening," Elaine says, waiting for them to make their exit before leaving herself.

Despite the fact that Beckett would surely like to spend a bit more time searching through these upper rooms, it's quite clear that their guide is not about to leave them unattended in this area of the club. There's nothing else to do, so with the slightest of sighs, Beckett opens the door and steps into a stairwell that is even darker than the dusky hallway. Castle is close behind her, but as soon as he sets foot in the gloom he is grabbed from behind and the next thing he knows, he is choking on the sickly sweet scent that permeates the rag someone has clamped over his mouth and nose. His vision starts to dim. Beckett, he thinks frantically, unable to call out. He can hear her struggling somewhere close to him just before he finally blacks out, his fingers clenching in one final, desperate attempt to reach her.

Castle feels like he is trying to climb out of a snowdrift made of cotton wool. Everything is muffled, muted. His senses struggle to gain some purchase as he tries to climb back into consciousness. The heavy pounding behind his eyes lets him know he's still alive. The cold kiss of the floor against his cheek tells him he's lying on the ground and the gentle hiss of processed air means he's somewhere indoors, but he can't quite remember where. When he finally manages to pry his eyelids open, it all comes back to him in a rush at the sight of her.

She's still completely out of it. Whatever drug they used has not yet worn off, so she hangs limply against the restraints, her arms pulled high over her head, her knees slightly bent as she sags towards the floor. Her dominatrix outfit was provocative enough when it covered her fully but now it is ripped and pushed askew. He doesn't know if it happened during the struggle or if it was something purposefully done to humiliate her, but the lacing of the bodice has come unstrung and it hangs down, exposing her breasts. Somewhere along the line she's lost the tight skirt that hugged her thighs, leaving her black panties and the garters that hold her stockings in full view.

His whole mind goes cold at the thought of what they might have done to her and he attempts to scramble to his feet with limbs that are not yet obeying the frantic commands of his brain. He hasn't managed to get further than his knees when a cold and calculating voice speaks from a corner of the room.

"Ah, Mister Castle, I see you have finally rejoined us. I'm afraid your detective might take a little longer, we had give her quite a dose before she succumbed."

Castle looks over to see a man dressed in a tailored suit, sitting in a leather chair a few feet from a handleless door. He looks as though he's just come from the office, or dinner at a fine restaurant, and his appearance is wildly incongruous among the racks and chains that are scattered through the room. Castle finally gets his feet underneath himself, but any plans he may have had to overpower their captor quickly fade at the sight of the gun that is cradled loosely in the man's hand.

"What … who … who are you?" Castle forces out from between lips that still feel strangely numb.

"I'm the person you've been looking for," the man says with a small smile. "Aren't you glad you've finally found me."

"How do you know who we are?" Speech is coming easier now.

The man clucks his tongue in reproof. "Did you really think that invitation would be a free pass? We check on everyone as soon as they sign the release. It was a matter of moments before we knew that Richard Rodgers was actually the infamous author, Richard Castle. After that, it wasn't all that hard to figure out that your supposed mistress, who did not exist as far as any search was concerned, was actually the NYPD detective who had been causing us so much trouble. Your dear Detective Beckett."

Castle can't help it. He's been trying not to look while he assesses their situation, but at the mention of her name, his eyes flick over to her. "Let her down," he says.

"I think not. She's quite a tigress, your muse. She'll be coming around soon and I have no desire for a repeat of her earlier performance." The man gives her a long look before walking over to where she hangs in the restraints. "Although I must say, you are a very lucky man, Mr. Castle," he says as he reaches out to fondle one bare breast.

Castle makes a strangled noise low in his throat, his blood turning to ice at the sight of that pervert's fingers on her flesh. The man just chuckles as he goes on kneading her soft mounds.

"What's the matter, don't you like seeing someone else touch what's yours?"

"Get your hands off her," Castle demands ineffectually. But the man must read something extra into his tone because he stops touching her and gazes at Castle with a speculative look in his eye.

"So that's how it is," he says. "She's not yours. You want her but you can't have her."

"No," Castle says, but he's not sure exactly which part of it he's denying.

"Hm, that little tidbit opens up all sorts of interesting possibilities. Come here."

Castle followed the instruction on wooden legs, his eyes skittering everywhere in an attempt to avoid looking in her direction. When he's finally standing next to them, every muscle in his body an agony of tension, the man gestures with the gun.

"Touch her," he says.

Castle's breath leaves him in a rush and he wishes he had never woken up. "No. I won't."

The man doesn't reply, just cocks the gun with a very audible click and points it at his head. His meaning is clear and although Castle would rather die than do anything to hurt her, he thanks everything that's holy that she's still unconscious and reaches out to brush his fingers across the scar that is visible in the center of her chest.

"Harder," the man demands, and despite every fiber of his being protesting against it, Castle closes his eyes and cups her in his hand.

The soft weight of her takes his breath away and for one tiny moment, they are the only two people in the room. His thumb stretches out to brush across her nipple just as she stirs, finally starting to come out from under the drug. He drops his hand as if her skin had burned him and lurches back so violently that he stumbles and falls to the floor. The man just shakes his head.

"What? Who? … Castle?" Beckett's voice is as unfocused as her eyes.

"My dear Detective, back among us once more," the man says, then chuckles to himself. "I must say, you do have the most excellent timing. Your partner and I were just exploring some ways to occupy ourselves while we wait for my colleagues to decide what to do with you two."

The danger in the man's voice acts like a bucket of cold water. Beckett is instantly alert. "My suggestion is that you release us because my colleagues will be arriving soon and it will go much better for you if you let us go."

"I'm sure they will come after you. And the staff will graciously let them in, even help them with their search. None of which will do you any good since they will never find you. Really, detective, a facility like ours is prepared for such eventualities."

Castle feels his stomach sinking as he reads the truth in the man's nonchalant words. Even Beckett's bravado appears to deflate as their hope of an imminent rescue fades.

Their captor continues, unperturbed. "All of which means that we have a little time on our hands, and I know just how to use it."

Careful to keep the gun trained on Castle, he makes his way to one of the cabinets that line one wall and removes a camera affixed to a tripod. He aims it towards Beckett and takes a few moments to fiddle with the knobs until he has it adjusted to his satisfaction. They both think they know what's coming next. Beckett is glaring defiantly into the lens but Castle feels as though the bottom has dropped out of his world.

"No, please, you can't," he pleads.

"Oh, but I can. Or rather, you can. I think our special clients will get quite a thrill from a scene with our most persistent adversaries."

Castle hadn't thought the situation could get any worse, but when he hears those words he realizes just how wrong he was.

"No, no, no, no …" he chants under his breath as he backs himself into a corner as far away from Beckett as possible and huddles there.

The man ignores him while he loosens the rope that holds Beckett's hands above her head. "On your knees," he orders.

She glares at him, her lips a thin line in her face, but doesn't move. The man shakes his head and cocks the trigger in Castle's direction. Beckett slides to her knees without a word and the man refastens the rope just tight enough to leave her there. Then he looks at Castle.

"Take off your pants," he orders.

"No. I won't. I don't care what you do to me, so you might as well shoot me and get it over with, because I will never do anything to hurt her." He is proud of the way his voice doesn't quaver even though he is bracing himself for the searing heat of a bullet.

He closes his eyes. He can hear Beckett frantically hiss his name between her teeth, urging him not to provoke their captor, but he doesn't care. He means every word he said. But the bullet doesn't come and Castle reopens his eyes at the sound of the man's amused laughter.

"How very chivalrous of you, but killing you now would be most unproductive. Besides, you seem to have forgotten that my gun is not the only weapon I have available."

The man reaches back into the open cabinet and brings out an evil looking flogger whose braided lashes end in tight knots. Castle's breath hitches in his chest but he doesn't waver. He can hear Beckett gasp again but he ignores her distress.

"You can torture me all you want. It won't change anything."

The man draws the lashes through his hand with a contemplative air as he walks over to where Beckett kneels on the cold cement. "Whatever makes you think you're the one I plan to torture?" he says softly.

Before Castle can even start to react, the whip is slicing through the air and crashing down across Beckett's bare upper back. She jerks under the sting of the lashes but doesn't cry out. Castle surges towards them as the whip travels the same path again and this time she can't quite contain her cry. He can see tiny flecks of red where the cruel knots have bitten into her flesh and the only thought in his mind is to somehow make it stop. He's brought up short by the barrel of the gun.

"Are you ready to follow my instructions, Mr. Castle, or do I have to apply a little more persuasion."

Castle still hesitates. It's as if his brain can't quite comprehend the situation and is frantically searching for a way out. Beckett's voice is what finally unglues him.

"Please, Castle," she rasps out. "Just do what he wants."

"She's a smart woman. You should listen to her. Now, take them off."

Castle finally obeys, pushing down his pants and shucking off his boxers when the gun makes an up and down motion in front of him. The gun waves again and he goes to stand in front of her, his flaccid cock at the level of her face.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to help her a bit, her hands are rather tied up at the moment," the man says with a smirk.

Castle fixes his gaze on the wall ahead of him and unclenches one fist to hold himself up so that she can reach him. When she takes him in her mouth, his world shatters. He no longer cares that they might die in here because as of now, that would be the most preferable outcome. Any chance he ever had of a life with her is leaching away with every touch of her lips to him. After this, they're done, and he's not sure he wants to live through that.

The man watches their sick tableau with hungry eyes. "Lovely," he says, "but I think our viewers will want a little more action."

The man's arm moves and the flogger wraps itself around Castle's ass, nowhere near as hard as he used it on Beckett, but hard enough to make his hips surge forward. Beckett makes a small grunt as he pushes into her mouth and the sound distracts him into looking down at her.

It is a huge mistake. Despite his utter horror at their situation, the sight of her lips wrapped around him must stroke some deeply buried, animalistic part of him, because he feels his cock twitch and knows with a degree of self loathing that he has never before imagined, that he is starting to get hard.

"Move," the man demands, waving the flogger threateningly over Beckett's already bleeding back.

Castle complies, thrusting into her mouth with strokes that are as slow and shallow as he dares to make them. It doesn't help. With every pass of her lips over his length, he can feel himself swelling further. He wants to die but even that thought doesn't stop him. She's hot and wet around him and his body simply refuses to listen to the screaming in his brain.

The man is watching them intently. "See, Mr. Castle, you're even enjoying yourself."

His words rip through Castle's consciousness, bringing his agony to a crest and he pulls back sharply, heedless of the consequences. A sob escapes him as he stumbles backwards, wanting only to get away … from him, from her, but most of all from himself.

The man clucks his tongue at him. "Really, you'd have a much better time if you'd just let go of your inhibitions."

Castle is sunk to far into his own tortured headspace to even hear him and the man correctly assesses that, for the moment, he is too occupied with his mental anguish to be much of a threat. He makes the most of the opportunity, hauling up on the rope that binds Beckett's hands and dragging her over to a high, padded bench. The gun barrel in her ribs ensures her cooperation as he bends her over the bench and ties the rope off to a cleat on its side. Then he turns his attention to her legs, pushing her thighs apart with a knee before securing each ankle with the cuffs that are attached to the legs of the bench.

Satisfied with her position, he pulls a small, folding knife out of one pocket. he slips the blade under first one, then the other side of her panties, slicing through the flimsy material until they fall from her legs. He runs a hand across her ass and down between her legs, then he steps back to admire his handiwork. She's bent over nearly double, her legs spread so that she is completely exposed. He smiles in approval then raises the flogger once more and brings it down across her naked ass. She can't help herself as she shrieks with shock and pain. Castle spins around at the sound, his whole body shaking as the echo of her agony courses through him.

"I again require your services, Mr. Castle. Or perhaps I should say the she requires them. Do you like what you see?" the man asks tauntingly. "Personally I think she could be improved with a few more lashes, but I'll leave that choice up to you."

The man's meaning is clear as he raises the flogger again, but it is the raspy sound of Beckett's laboured breathing as she fights through the pain that brings Castle to her side. He places himself between her and her their tormentor.

"No. No more. You'll have to get through me first." He can hear her behind him, rasping out his name but he stands firm.

"i see my method of persuasion is no longer working," the man says with a sigh. "Understand this, Mr. Castle, I will kill you if I have to. After all, this will probably end with both your deaths no matter what you do, it's only a question of timing. But make no mistake, your valour will not spare her." Then he reaches down to squeeze the bulge in his elegant dress pants. "I don't think she will prefer the alternative."

Castle's eyes sink shut in defeat. He turns and bends over her, stroking her hair as he keens out his distress against her shoulder. His mind churns through all the horrific possibilities, searching for a way out. Attacking the man, unarmed and half dressed seems a sure death sentence, but maybe, just maybe, he can do enough damage to spare her from the worst of their captor's threats. He has to try.

He can hear her talking to him, but at first the words don't penetrate his torment. He bends to lay a final kiss against her forehead and feels her struggle underneath him. She's crying now and her tears give him pause.

"Please, Castle. Please don't do this. Please stay alive while we have a chance," she moans against the leather of the bench.

"What chance, Kate," he whispers back. "What chance do we have now."

"Don't die. Please, just don't die. Do what he asks, do anything he asks, just stay alive until help gets here. Please," she chokes out through her tears.

"You can't ask me … Kate, you can't ask me to …"

"I can. I am. Just please don't die."

He draws in a shuddering breath and stands up again. "Don't make me hurt her," he begs the man. "Please. just give me something so I don't have to hurt her."

He doesn't get an answer. The man just stands there, regarding him impassively, and Castle thinks for a moment that even this small request is going to be denied and he really doesn't know what he's going to do when it is. Finally, the man gives a small sigh.

"You don't know what you're missing," he tells Castle before he reaches into a nearby drawer and tosses a tube of lubricant in his direction.

Castle lets his breath out in a relieved huff, and squeezes out a generous amount before slicking it onto his cock. Then he takes some more on his fingers and turns to Beckett, freezing for a long moment as he truly takes in the prospect of what he is about to do.

"Castle … Rick," she pleads softly, and the sound of his name on her lips galvanizes him back into action.

He reaches down between her legs, working the gel into her, his breath catching as his fingers slide between her folds. Most of him is still utterly horrified at his own actions, but that small, unevolved part that reacted when she had him in her mouth crows in delight at the feel of her. He shuts his eyes when he takes himself in hand and positions himself at her entrance. Bending down over her back, he whispers out his apology as he pushes into her, his lips forming a string of I'm sorrys over and over again until they run together into an unintelligible mantra of guilt.

He keeps his eyes closed as he thrusts against her, trying to find someplace safe to go within himself. A place where he won't feel the hot grip of her walls around his cock, or the press of her ass against his belly. Somewhere he can't hear the rasp of her breath as she turns her face into the leather top of the bench. Anywhere he can't feel the confusing mix of anguish and arousal that surges through his veins.

He doesn't succeed. He can feel himself increasing his pace, feel himself rising closer and closer to a peak he doesn't want to climb. His teeth grit together as he fights for control. He doesn't care about physiology, about the tension of their years together, all he knows is that this is so very wrong and he wants to gouge out his own heart because of his body's reaction.

He wishes he could just stop. He knows there has already been far too much damage done for them ever to me the same again. Really, he would be surprised if she can ever stand the sight of him after this night, but even so, he would give anything not to add this final insult to the toll. But, right behind him, and always in the back of his mind, is the flogger, and the gun, and that other even more horrifying weapon that their captor had gripped so nonchalantly just minutes before.

When his back finally bows with his climax, tears are running down his face. "I'm sorry, Kate. Oh God, I'm so sorry," he keens as he comes inside her.

And then it's over. He slips out of her and stumbles a few steps away, crumpling to his knees and burying his face in his hands. He can hear Beckett breathing unevenly as she struggles to control her tears. Then over that sound, he registers another harsher rasp of air. It breaks through his misery and he glances up to find that their captors attention has lost its focus. The gun hangs loosely in his hand as he gazes at Beckett with hooded eyes and grips his erection through his pants. It's not much, but it's a chance.

Before he misses his chance; before he can lose his nerve or hear Beckett's pleading voice in his head, he gets his feet underneath himself and launches towards his target. He crashes into the man, his hands scrabbling for the gun. They fall to the floor together and the gun spins away into a corner. He can feel the man's hands clawing for his eyes, his throat, but he ignores it and crashes his forehead down onto his opponents nose, then follows it with his fist. He's pulling his arm back to hit him again when he realizes that the man has gone limp underneath him.

He rolls off of him before fishing in his pockets for the knife and key. As soon as he finds them he frees Beckett's legs and saws through the rope around her wrists. Once she is free, his adrenaline gives out and he slumps back to the floor. His eyes slide shut as his breath rasps in his chest. For a moment, the relief bubbling through him overwhelms his grief and guilt.

Then he opens his eyes to see Beckett crouched over the man, securing his arms with a pair of handcuffs she has retrieved from somewhere in the room. She is still barely dressed and her inner thighs glisten where a trail of his come runs down between them. The sight undoes him. Every regret, every bit of self loathing comes rushing back. I love her and I … and I … his mind shies away from even the word. I love her and I raped her. The thought blazes through him, ripping away everything he has ever hoped for, everything he thought he knew about himself as her friend, as a man.

Suddenly he wishes the night had ended any other way. Not for her, never for her, but for himself, because right now death seems preferable to facing her again. His frantic eyes fall on the gun, lying abandoned in the corner and the thought crosses his mind that he can still get what he deserves. He shifts over closer to it, then takes a deep breath and reaches for the weapon, cradling it in his lap as silent tears run down his cheeks.

"Castle, hand me the gun," Beckett calls to him once she has made sure that the man is no longer a threat to them.

When he doesn't answer, or even move, she starts to worry. She steps towards him, reaching out a hand, but he flinches away.

"Don't touch me," he rasps out. "How can you touch me?"

"Castle," she pleads gently. "Castle, give me the gun."

He stares at the weapon as if he's not really sure what it's for, one finger caressing the barrel as he turns it over in his hands. "I can't," he tells her. "I can't do this."

"I know," she tells him, deliberately misunderstanding. "That's why your going to give me the gun."

But he's not listening. He lifts the gun and strokes his own cheek with the barrel. "I raped you, Beckett. How can you even look at me?"

"No, you didn't. You couldn't. You had no more choice than I did."

"That's not true."

"It is. You're as much of a victim as I am."

"Is that what you were thinking when I was coming inside you?" he asks, desperate to make her understand that while he might be able to forgive his actions, his reactions put him beyond the pale.

"I was thinking how grateful I was that you had the courage to spare me something even worse, because that's what you did, Castle. You saved me." She draws in a shuddering breath, her heart in her throat, and goes on. "Don't hurt me now. Don't make me watch you die."

Guilt finally accomplishes what reason could not. When she reaches for the gun, he lets her take it from his hand. Then he buries his face in his arms and refuses to look at her again.

That's where they are when their rescue bursts through the locked door. Castle has his pants back on, but he's still slumped in the corner, incoherent with grief. Beckett, wrapped in a blanket, stands guard over him, her face streaked with tears she's cried for them both.

**A/N: Obviously, there is much, much more to this story, but I'm not sure when (or even if) i can write it. Although I always knew it would be longish, this grew beyond all my expectations, and honestly, writing it has taken a lot out of me. I apologize for leaving it at such an angst filled juncture but the best I can promise is that someday, I will try to bring it to a better resolution.**

**Reviews might help me do that ... hint, hint.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So here's the next installment since it seems I've committed myself to actually writing this one all the way out. Unfortunately, I still have to warn you, it hasn't gotten any more pleasant. Yes, eventually there will be a happy ending, but this isn't the end and there's not much happiness here. Sorry.**

* * *

Beckett keeps glancing over to where Castle sits half in and half out of the open door of a squad car. A detective bends over him, she thinks it's a guy named Monahan, but she can't be sure in the dark. He's questioning Castle, and she's relieved to see that he seems to be answering. If he is, it will be the first he's spoken since she took the gun from him back in that room she would rather forget.

Which was okay, she did enough talking for both of them, coaching him on what to say when help finally arrived. What had to stay in, and more importantly, what parts to leave out. Explaining how to be truthful without being precisely forthcoming when they give their statements. The trick is to tell only some of what happened without ever denying there was anything else. It's a fine line to walk for someone who knows the way that defense attorneys grab onto every little discrepancy, someone who's seen perps go free on the slimmest of pretenses, but tonight it's necessary. For both of them. She can only hope his guilt doesn't loosen his tongue.

She's under no illusion that the story won't eventually have to come out. But their captor, a man she now knows is Malachi Baerman, the managing partner of Club Marquis, is still only semi-conscious. The officers are busy sorting out who else was involved in producing the club's violent videos, and at least for tonight, they have some breathing room. They have a chance to collect themselves, an opportunity to have a hand in exactly how and when they finally reveal the details, a way to salvage at least some of their tattered self respect. She's sure they're going to need it.

Really, really sure, especially if the way Ryan and Esposito are reacting is anything to go by. They came over as soon as the EMT finished treating the whip marks on her back. She knows they saw the state of her clothes before she changed into the tee shirt and sweats someone found for her. She suspects they heard her refuse hospital treatment. Now they're shuffling around in front of her, Esposito's face closed up like a fist, and Ryan staring at the ground, pushing a stray pebble around with the toe of his shoe. She knows what they want, and suddenly, their reticence infuriates her.

"For God's sake, I'm not going to break if you say the word," she snaps.

They look up at her in surprise, Ryan's gaze glancing off her own to settle somewhere over her left shoulder. Esposito scowls even harder and clears his throat. But neither of them speak.

She huffs out a breath and forms her words with exaggerated clarity. "I do not need a rape kit. If I did need one, I would get it done. In case you've forgotten, I'm a cop and I _know_ how important it is."

"Right," Esposito says gruffly.

Ryan's eyes are still pinned to some indeterminate point behind her. "Um, okay, that's good," he mutters.

Beckett just closes her eyes. They won't like it, but she mentally adds getting the two of them off the case to the list of things she has to do before all the sordid details come out. She sighs; it's a long list, and suddenly she is very, very tired.

* * *

They're taken back to the precinct in separate squad cars, interviewed in different rooms, kept apart because that is protocol and with one of their own as a victim, the NYPD isn't taking any chances. She doesn't know what he's said, but when she emphasizes the whip, minimizes the sexual contact, and pleads exhaustion for her lack of details, they accept it, so he must have stuck to their story. Or refused to talk. That possibility worries her and she tries to get him alone, if even for a moment, but every time she catches sight of him, his expression is wooden and he flinches away. Finally, she gives up.

It's close to midnight when they're allowed to go home. Castle's in no shape to drive and his Ferrari is still parked somewhere back at the crime scene, so they send him home in a black and white. She catches the uniform assigned to drive him and makes sure he'll see him all the way to his door, asks him to make sure Martha is home, and tells him to call her if the loft is empty. Then she heads for her own vacant apartment.

Her apartment feels cold when she finally arrives, the echo of her footsteps louder than usual, but she shrugs it off, heading for the shower. That's what she wants, the sting of water against the nicks on her back and buttocks, beating down on her until it washes this night away. She shucks off the tee shirt and sweats, holding them between her thumb and fingers as she stuffs them deep into the trash. She knows they have nothing to do with what happened to her; she wasn't wearing them until after and they don't even belong to her, but she doesn't give a damn about logic at the moment. She wants them off and gone.

She turns the water on as hot as she can stand and steps into the shower. For a long moment she just stands there, eyes closed, and lets the spray pound down onto her. The cuts on her back prickle and burn but the pain feels good, the way you relish a sharp pinch that lets you know you've woken from a nightmare. She grabs a bath mitt and starts to scrub. She wonders why she doesn't feel much cleaner when the hot water gives out and forces her to leave.

She dresses and pads back out into her kitchen, grabs a glass and roots through her cabinets in search of a brand of forgetfulness that will work for her. The tequila and rum on the front of the shelf hold no appeal. They're too reminiscent of pleasant times, shared laughter and easy company. She digs in the back until she finds the bottle of amber liquid. Whisky is what she wants, its peaty, smoky curl on her tongue making her think of burned and buried things before its hot burn in her gut wipes everything away. She pours herself a large shot and takes a long swallow, then regards the remaining liquid for a moment before refilling the glass and carrying it over to her couch.

She's truly exhausted, her mind fuzzy and her edges frayed, but she shies away from her bed. The thought of sleep, alone, with only the dark meanderings of her mind for company, keeps her out of the bedroom. Instead, she turns out the lights, grabs a blanket, wraps it tight around her shoulders, and curls up in a corner of her couch. Sitting in the half light of the streetlamps that filters in through her windows, she sips the whisky and lets silent tears trail unheeded down her cheeks.

She wakes with her heart pounding and her breath coming in rapid gasps. She knows she must have dozed for a couple of hours because there's a sharp crick in her neck from where her head has rested awkwardly against the arm of the couch and the cuts on her back are dried and stuck to her top. But now, a panic attack has her in its grasp. She knows what to do, practices her breathing, counts backwards from one hundred, until the immediate physical symptoms have passed. Even then, a sickly dread pools in her gut. It might be anxiety left over from the attack, but it feels like more than that. This worry has a specific focus.

Castle.

It's still hours before dawn, she shouldn't take the chance of disturbing whatever sleep he might manage, but the worry makes her nauseous, so she finally picks up her phone and dials. It goes straight to voicemail. It means nothing; she knows that. She cradles the phone and tries to convince herself that everything is okay, but her mind insists on playing back his face, his broken, crumpled expression, as he held the gun to his cheek. Her anxiety spirals out of control. She's pacing now, quick strides taking her towards her door and back again as she loses her nerve. Finally, she realizes there's another solution. She grabs her phone and dials another number.

"Hello," Martha's sleepy voice answers after several rings.

Beckett lets out the breath she didn't even know she was holding. "Martha, it's Kate."

"Kate? Is something the matter? It's four AM."

"No … yes … um, could you do something for me?"

"Darling, if it's important enough for you to call at this hour the least I can do is try."

"Would you check on Castle?"

There's a long moment silence on the other end of the line. "Kate, what happened tonight? Richard hasn't said a thing."

"Please, Martha, don't ask me that. Don't ask him either. Please." She hates her frantic pleading tone, but the thought of someone prying into what they've been through runs through her like a hot knife. A knife they'll both have to face when they tell their stories tomorrow.

"Relax, darling, forget i asked."

"Thank you. Would you call me after you see him? I just …"

"No need to explain, but why don't you stay on the line, I'm almost there." Beckett can hear the creak as she opens the door to his bedroom. "He's asleep," Martha whispers into the phone.

"No, I'm not," Castle mutters in the background. "Is that Beckett?"

"Do you want to tell her you're okay?"

"No. Just tell her I'll see her tomorrow," he says in a tired voice, then flinches when he hears Beckett's sharp intake of breath come through the phone. His mother has put the phone on speaker and the sound makes it clear she heard his brusque response.

"Richard," his mother chides him.

"It's okay," Beckett says, knowing his assurance of tomorrow has answered her most important question.

There's an awkward moment of silence before Castle releases a shaky sigh. He beckons for the phone. "I am glad you called," he finally whispers.

She lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding and speaks softly into the phone. "I know. I just needed to hear your voice." Then she thumbs the button and ends the call.

There's really not much else they can say right now.

Beckett retreats back to the couch. Talking to him, if you could call it that, has eased her most immediate worry, but sleep still eludes her. Eventually, the oppressive silence of her apartment becomes too much. It won't be the first time she's gotten to the precinct before first light, but it will be the first time the case that sends her there is her own.

She pulls her hair back into a severe bun and dons her usual turtleneck and blazer. When she feels the grip of the collar around her throat, and the restrictive tug of the blazer across her shoulders, her skin prickles with unease. Even the minimal bind of clothes she wears everyday is too much to take, makes her flex her fingers and roll her shoulders to reassure herself of their freedom.

She can't spend the day this way, her skin crawling every time an innocuous bit of clothing pulls at her limbs. She lets out a little huff of exasperation; she hates to feel this weak. Still, there's nothing she can do to stop it so she peels off the offending items and shrugs into a loose, draping top instead. Then she heads for the precinct.

* * *

She's deep in paperwork when Ryan and Esposito walk in. They have a hushed conversation over by their desks. She knows it's about her even though she can't make out more than the anxious susurration of their whispered words. She pointedly ignores them. Finally, her lack of reaction provokes them into action, or maybe they just reach some sort of decision. Either way, the whispers stop and Esposito walks over to her desk and hovers there silently.

"What?" she asks. Her irritation comes through more strongly that she intended, but damn it, this will be much easier if they'd stop treating her like some sort of fragile flower.

"We, uh, didn't think we'd see you in here so early."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't sleep. Figured I might as well be productive," she tells him flatly. Then she waits for the question he really wants to ask.

"You know we got taken off the case?" he asks carefully.

"I do. I'm the one who requested it."

"Beckett-"

But she's ready with an explanation and cuts him off. "For obvious reasons, I'm off it too. I wanted you two available when we catch our next body." It's not the truth, but it should salve their egos enough to forestall their questions.

"I guess that makes sense," he says uncertainly.

He hovers for a moment longer and she can tell he isn't sure whether or not to believe her, but she's made it too hard to push the issue so finally he walks away. She lets out a sigh of relief. It's not that she likes lying to her partners, but until she figures out how to get everyone to just forget last night and go on, she doesn't have much choice.

She can feel them watching her as she goes through the mundane motions of any other morning without a case. Whenever she glances up they turn their eyes away, but still it goes on. She tries to imbue her actions with some sort of exaggerated normalcy, as if she can make sure that the way she reaches for a stapler today is exactly the way she has reached for it every other day before. It might convince them, but it gives her an uneasy sense of unreality. She feels like she is sleepwalking through one of those semi-lucid dreams. The kind where you know you are sleeping and yet find yourself powerless to prevent your unconscious self from walking off the cliff you know is right around the corner.

It's almost a relief when Captain Gates finally walks in. Beckett jumps up before Gates can reach her office and catches her at the door.

"Sir, can I speak to you for a moment?" Gates waits expectantly and Beckett is forced to go on. "In private, sir?"

Gates nods and leads her into her office, removing her jacket and settling herself behind her desk before looking up at Beckett. "What can I do for you, Detective?"

Beckett finds herself nervously fingering the edge of her top as she searches for the right way to present her request. Her outfit feels unprofessional, vulnerable, and for a moment she curses the weakness that made her succumb to her irrational fears of confinement and forgo the armor of her usual clothes. She forces herself still, squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath.

"I wanted to talk to you about my statement ... and Castle's too. I know we'll need to give a full account but I was hoping it could be kept under wraps, at least until we know if it'll be needed. I can assure you that the details from last night have no real bearing on the ongoing investigation and I just think that I … we … can be more effective in the future if those details don't become common knowledge."

"And you want me to just take your word for that? You're not going to tell me so I can decide for myself?"

Beckett holds firm. "I'd rather not, sir. The thing is, we have Baerman dead to rights on multiple charges. He'll be looking to trade information in exchange for any kind of plea, and the DA will probably give one to him. I'm okay with that; we need to mop up the rest of this operation before they hurt anyone else. But that means he'll never see the inside of a courtroom except as a witness. You'll never need us, so it wouldn't hurt to seal our files. We have to tell someone and the DA will probably need to see it, but everyone else …" she trails off, chewing her lower lip as she waits for an answer.

Gates regards her impassively for a long moment and Beckett wonders if she's going to turn her down. Finally she speaks. "You know, Detective, contrary to popular opinion, I do have your best interests at heart."

Beckett thinks that point might be open to debate, especially since she's already been forced to say far more than she wanted, but Gates isn't looking for her opinion.

"I'll make the necessary calls," Gates eventually says.

Beckett breaths a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

Gates gives her an assessing look, then her expression softens. "If I was in your shoes, Detective, I'd ask for Julie Sokoloff from SVU."

The suggestion is more than Beckett expects. "I will, sir," she stammers.

"Do you think Mr. Castle has any particular preference?"

"He seemed okay with the detective from last night. Monahan, I think."

"Then I'll arrange that as well." Beckett's still fumbling for some appropriate show of gratitude, but before she can find one, Gates's face hardens once again. "Is there anything else?" she asks.

"No, sir."

"Then we won't speak of it again unless we have to."

Which only makes Beckett more grateful, because forgetting about the whole ordeal is exactly what she wants.

* * *

When she first sees Detective Sokoloff, she almost regrets taking Gates's advice. The detective is not at all what she expected. A stocky, buxom woman in her middle forties, she is dressed in casual clothes that, along with her physique and kind expression, give her a somewhat motherly appearance. Beckett can easily see her comforting the sort of victims SVU encounters on a regular basis, but comfort is the last thing she wants right now. A glance at the woman's eyes, however, reveals a keen intelligence and the matter of fact way she deals with the preliminaries eventually starts to put Beckett at ease.

"Sorry about the surroundings," Sokoloff says, waving a hand to indicate the bare walls of one of homicide's interrogation rooms. "We've got nicer rooms for our interviews in SVU but after talking to Captain Gates, I assumed you didn't want to be seen down there."

"You assumed correctly. But it's okay … not like I'm not used to being here, even if I am usually on the other side of the table," Beckett replies with her best attempt at a wry smile.

If that smile looks more like a grimace, Sokoloff doesn't comment on it, simply getting down to business. She elicits the details from the previous night without offering either judgement or sympathy, asking the necessary questions in a clear, calm voice that allows Beckett to find the detachment she needs to retell her tale. In fact, relating it this way, in these surroundings, is actually helpful. Sokoloff is satisfied with the facts, doesn't push for any emotions or reactions beyond those required to understand what happened, and by the time Beckett has finished, it's almost as though the whole incident happened to someone else. It surprises her, but for the first time since she woke up bound in that horrible room, she feels able to take a deep breath.

Her relief is short lived.

"Just a few more questions, but these may be a little harder for you," Sokoloff says.

"Okay," Beckett replies with a nod.

"Before this incident, did you and Mr. Castle ever have a relationship of a sexual nature?"

Beckett's gaze flies up, but she sees only calm impartiality in the other detective's expression. "No. Never."

"And, to be very clear, you have said that, despite achieving an erection, any sexual acts performed by Mr. Castle were done so under extreme duress?"

Beckett can't help the gasp that escapes her.

"I'm asking because I have to," Sokoloff explains gently, then waits for her answer.

Beckett swallows thickly, her mouth suddenly dry. "Yes. I want it to be clear that he would have died before he hurt me. Literally died. But the alternative Baerman offered was even worse than what he made us do."

"He threatened to rape you himself. Is that correct?"

"Yes. So I begged Castle to do whatever he asked. It's very important that everyone understands I told him to do it and I was glad he was capable of it. I don't know what would have happened if he wasn't."

"Understood. I think that's everything I need," Sokoloff says when Beckett finally falls silent. "You did just fine, Detective. I'll get this typed up and you can sign it this afternoon. Don't worry, no one will see it. I'll type it myself," she adds when she sees a flash of worry in Beckett's eyes. "One copy for the DA and another will be sealed before it's put in the case file." Then she gathers up her notes and starts to leave.

Beckett manages to regain at least a small measure of her earlier composure. "Thank you for making this as easy as possible."

Sokoloff pauses by the door and regards Beckett with a perceptive gaze. "Nothing easy about it. I know you think you've got it under control, and as a cop you've certainly had plenty of practice when it comes to compartmentalizing, but don't make the mistake of thinking that solves anything. My advice is that you find someone to talk to, or it's all going to come back when you can least afford it."

It's a struggle, but Beckett keeps her face bland as she nods in agreement, because talking about this any further is the last thing she wants to do. It doesn't fool the other detective, who gives a low sigh of resignation.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Sokoloff mutters as the door closes behind her.

Beckett rests her elbows on the table as the door clicks shut and leaves her alone in the interrogation room. She buries her head in her hands and presses her palms against her temples as if that desperate pressure can somehow squeeze out the sound of Sokoloff's last words and leave only her fragile sense of normalcy behind.

* * *

No new cases come in, so she spends the rest of the day at her desk, fending off Ryan's and Esposito's concerned looks with a veneer of calm and repeatedly checking the halls for Castle's appearance. It's mid-afternoon before he finally arrives, his glance sliding away from her as he follows Monahan into one of the interview rooms. He hasn't shaved, and the dark circles under his eyes betray his sleepless night, but he appears otherwise intact, if subdued. She tries to take comfort in that.

When Castle emerges an hour later, he heads straight for the elevator. She jumps up and follows him, shoving a hand between the closing doors and ignoring the way he flinches when she steps into the enclosed space with him. There's a long moment of silence while the door slides shut. He has his arms wrapped around himself, although whether the gesture is for protection or because he no longer trusts himself around her is not something she can discern.

"I told him everything," he finally says in a broken voice.

"I know. We had to, but Castle, no one else will know. Gates agreed to keep it under wraps unless it's needed. The files will be sealed and when Baerman makes a deal, that will be the end of the whole thing. We were taken hostage and no one will ever know anything more than that."

"I'll know," he whispers. Then he closes his eyes. "You'll know," he says even more softly.

She reaches out to comfort him and can feel the vibrating tension of his muscles under her hand. "Oh, Castle … I don't care. I told you that."

He just shakes his head as the car grinds to a halt. "I need to stay away from … here … at least for a little while," he tells her.

"I understand. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything about a plea. Then, when it's finally over, it will be easier to come back."

He gives her one last look that's so devoid of hope it almost rips her in two. "Maybe," he says as he walks away.

She feels an almost visceral pain, although whether it's fear or anger, she really can't tell. All she knows is that _maybe_ is not the right word. It's not _their_ word, and while she believes she can put this behind her, she doesn't understand why he won't try to do the same. It leaves her hurt and scared and more than a little pissed off because she can't cope with _maybe_ when what she really needs to hear is _always._

* * *

It takes longer than she expects for the DA to make a bargain with Baerman and each passing day only increases her anxiety. She wonders if maybe she was wrong, if somehow that twisted, evil man is willing to take the fall for his co-conspirators. But it doesn't add up, she can't picture him taking a death sentence silently. Besides, the prospect of telling her story at a public trial simply doesn't bear imagining, so she puts it out of her mind and focuses on the body that finally drops on their watch.

It's not a very interesting case, but when Castle fails to appear at the crime scene, Ryan's brow wrinkles and he starts to comment on his absence. A sharp glare from Beckett silences him before he ever finishes the question and when she leaves the room, Esposito digs an elbow into his ribs and delivers a glare of his own.

"You an idiot, man?" he asks Ryan.

"No, I just wondered-"

"Yeah, well quit wondering and start thinking before you speak, because you do not want to ask her that question."

"But aren't you worried about him?"

"Sure I'm worried, but he's got a family to look after him. She only has us and she's made it very clear she doesn't want to talk about it, so until we know something different, we're going to give her what she wants and not fucking talk about it. Got it?"

"Got it," Ryan agrees, but when Beckett comes back, he keeps his eyes on her and the worry lines stay between his brows.

Beckett knows they're watching her, knows they don't quite believe her facade of normalcy, but other than Ryan's one almost question, they hold their peace and do their jobs. She does the same. Gradually, at least during the daytime, she manages to forget the axe hanging over her head.

Nights are a different story. She stays at the precinct as late as she can without raising even more questions. When she finally has to go home, she buys herself a few hours of restless sleep with the help of her bottle of whiskey. She knows she can't go on for long like this, but Baerman's plea has to come through soon and if it doesn't, well, she's pretty sure she'll need more than alcohol to get her through that circus.

She has almost given up hope when Gates finally calls her into her office one afternoon a few days later. In her exhausted state, she finds she's unable to read Gates's expression and has to wait, her every nerve jangling, for the captain to tell her the deal has come through. Her relief is so great, she doesn't register the details of Baerman's plea, just the fact that this nightmare is finally over and the threat of exposure gone for good.

"Sir, I promised Castle I'd let him know when this was over and I'd rather do that in person. Do you mind if I take the rest of the afternoon off to do that?"

"Does this mean I can expect Mr. Castle back at the precinct gain soon?"

"I hope so."

Gates makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, her expression sour, but she waves her hand towards the door. "Go on then. Tell your author he's off the hook. I suppose I'll survive his return."

"Thank you, sir."

Relief lightens her steps as she heads for the elevator. She's so happy to know that the days of anxious waiting are over she never considers that Castle may not be as ready to put it all behind them. It never occurs to her that the real nightmare might be just beginning.

* * *

Her fist on his door echos the hammering in her heart as she waits for someone to answer. Eventually she hears a slow shuffling of feet and the door swings open, Castle standing on the other side. He doesn't look good. He's dressed in a tee shirt and jeans that look like he's been wearing them for a while. His hair hasn't seen a comb yet today and his cheeks are shaded with stubble. But it doesn't matter now, because things can finally get back to normal.

"It's over, Castle," she says in a rush, waiting for relief to light his eyes. "It's over. Baerman took a plea and we can finally forget all this."

He doesn't answer, just moves away from the door to grant her entrance. He ends up standing by his couch, his back to her and his fingers clenched against the leather. She can hear his breathing, harsh in his throat, as if even the act of living is too painful for him.

"Can you really, Kate? Because I can't," he finally rasps out.

"Can I what?"

"Forget."

"Yes, I can and I will. So should you."

There's an undertone of anger in her voice now, because damn it, why won't he just let it go. She's arranged everything, held herself together by sheer force of will in order to reach this outcome while he's sat here in his loft drowning in self pity, or self recrimination, or whatever it is that's making him act this way. She is over it. She wants her life back, wants to sleep at night without needing the dull burn of alcohol, wants this all to become no more than a fading memory, but she needs his help and he's refusing to cooperate.

Hell, he's refusing to even look at her.

"Don't you think I want to forget?" He turns his haunted eyes towards her. "I can't even sleep. I keep having dreams about it."

"So do I. So what? You know that's normal. Did you think we'd get away without even a touch of PTSD?"

"There's nothing normal about these dreams."

She doesn't quite understand what he's trying to say. "Maybe you just need to talk to someone."

"And say what?" He gives a mirthless laugh. "'Hey, doc, I raped my partner, and guess what? I enjoyed it-'"

"You didn't rape me!"

"Than what would you call it? And, in some other universe, that might even be forgivable since there was at least a gun to my head. But now I dream about it and the same thing happens. I dream about being in that room with you, doing what I did, and when I wake up …"

He breaks off with a strangled sob. She reaches out to comfort him but he flinches away, leaving her standing there with her arm outstretched and a fist squeezing her heart.

"I dream about it, and when I wake up I'm hard as a rock. I don't even think there's a word for what that makes me."

Except she knows the answer to that and she knows she's to blame. All the years of her not being strong enough to accept what was right in front of her are what led them to this. Months upon months of him holding back are what make his body reach out for what his mind tells him he can't have. The last thing she wants to do is jump into the murky pool of their relationship at a time like this, but she doesn't see any other way to get through to him.

She reaches out again, wrapping her fingers around his arm. This time she doesn't let him shake her off, keeping her grip firm until he's forced to turn and face her.

"Castle … Rick, it only makes you one thing - the man who loves me. It makes you frustrated, and tortured, and totally human and it's all my fault."

She knows she should say the words, tell him that she shares his feelings, but even now, her fear gets the better of her and she can't quite choke them out. Instead she slides her hand up to his head, her fingers threading into his hair, and pulls him down into a kiss.

At first he doesn't respond and his lips are slack underneath hers. But she can feel the breath hitch in his chest, and after a moment, the gentle curl of his fingers against her back. She puts everything she can't say into the kiss, slicking her tongue across the seam of his lips and delving inside when he finally parts them. She knows the moment the dam breaks, when he gives back all that he's getting and his torrent of emotions floods into the kiss.

She feels the first, faint stirrings of panic when his arms close more tightly around her but she pushes them down. This is Castle. She knows him, inside and out, and knows he would never hurt her. But it makes no difference. Just days ago, the innocent pinch of a tailored blazer set her nerves on edge, and she's helpless before the onslaught of irrational fear that swamps her when he presses her back against the wall and his lips trace a hot line down her throat.

Her hands fist in his shirt and his name catches in her throat when her chest constricts. She starts to struggle, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Castle," she finally manages to choke out. "Castle, stop."

Her hands push against his chest as the claustrophobic feeling nearly overwhelms her. She finally gets through to him and his mouth leaves her skin as he pulls away a little bit. It's not enough, but at least she can breath again. He looks at her, confused, and she knows the moment he finally understands the panic written on her face because his arms fall away from her and the hope dies in his eyes.

He lets out a strangled sob. "Oh God, Kate. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. All I ever do is hurt you."

"No, you don't understand. Rick, it's not you, it's me."

"What difference does it make when what happened in that room took away any chance we ever had?"

"It doesn't have to be like that," she says, frantic to get her point across. But she knows her words are not enough even if he was capable of listening to them right now.

"Yes, Kate, it does." Tears are streaming down his face. "Please, just go before we make this any worse."

She doesn't want to leave it like this, but he's disappeared into his study and closed the door behind himself. She's scared and shaking and nauseous as the aftermath of her panic curls sourly in her gut. There's nothing left to do but go, the sound of his door latch snicking shut behind her echoing as loudly as a gunshot in her mind.

She makes it downstairs without falling apart, makes it all the way to the corner of his building, the sheer force of her will holding her shattered emotions at bay. But finally it hits her and she staggers into the nearest alley, her arms wrapped around her waist.

The next thing she knows, she's bent double, her forehead pressed to cold brick as she retches up her anguish into a puddle on the dirty pavement. She stays there long after the spasms have receded, the taste of bile as bitter as failure on her tongue. The hollow ache in her gut makes her wonder if maybe he was right after all.

_It's over_, she thinks, _it's really over_. Only now that thought brings absolutely no comfort at all.


End file.
